With each keystroke I feel the throb in my hand. Not a deep bruise but enough to remind me that I played catch with my son for about an hour this afternoon. He’ll be nine years old in December, and I couldn’t ask for a better kid.

I’ve been waiting for him to take an interest in baseball. Mostly for selfish reasons because I have so many fond memories of playing catch with my father. After a long day at work, I’d beg him to let me pitch to him in our front yard. He showed me the proper mechanics of pitching, how to hide the ball and how to throw from the stretch with runners on base.

We continued to play catch well into my teens. He’d crouch down in a catcher’s stance and set a target for me to hit and would call “strike” if I was close. He spent hours showing me how to grip and release a curveball. My small hands made it difficult to throw it for a strike, but it would loop just enough to keep right-handed hitters off the plate.

Baseball is different than football or basketball, two sports where a person’s size can give them a distinct advantage. Size matters little in baseball. Baseball also requires the player to possess more than one skill. Each player must know how to hit, field and throw the baseball, and that takes years of practice. I often hear that the best athletes play basketball, and I like to remind them what happened when Danny Ainge and Michael Jordan tried to play Major League Baseball.

Last week my son told me that he played baseball with a friend, and asked if I’d play catch with him. He didn’t have a glove, but we hit the store at the right time of the year because all their baseball gear was on clearance. Even my youngest son got his own glove.

After digging around the garage, I located my old Wilson A-2000 I’ve had since I was sixteen. We tossed the ball around the yard until the laces gave out on the back webbing of my glove. I sent it off to be repaired which will take a few weeks.

My son knows I don’t own a spare glove. But after school today, he asked if I’d play catch with him. I considered telling him we’d have to wait till my glove was repaired.

But I thought of all those afternoons my father spent with me tossing the ball back and forth. Of course, he made sure I had the best mitt money could buy. I think he even played barehanded until I could throw the ball hard enough that it would hurt to catch.

So I went outside and tossed the ball with my son on an unusually warm October day in Seattle. I showed him which leg to lift and plant when throwing. We walked through the mechanics of throwing together without a hitch. Occasionally I have to remind myself that he’s left-handed which is an advantage when it comes to hitting. With only a few days worth of practice, he’s getting the hang of it all.

And I don’t mind the sore hand tonight because it’s a reminder of not only the time I spent with my son today but all those afternoons I spent with my father years ago.

When I was dumped in a German city barely able to recite a few religious phrases, one of the most valuable skills I learned as a missionary was how to read a map. And my map of choice was a Falk Plan city map.

This was years before GPS would trickle down from the military to consumers and cell phones were tethered to Cadillacs and reserved for the wealthy. These were still high tech as far as maps were concerned. They fit in a pocket yet expanded to show much of the city. Many hours were spent flipping to the index to lookup the street name, and then thumbing forward to the exact page and map quadrant where I’d find the street and begin planning my route.

It wasn’t long before I became obsessed with maps and couldn’t leave the apartment without one in my breast pocket. This was helpful when my German skills were in their infancy. But as can be the case with GPS today, I learned to rely on that map instead of my instincts. Instead of scanning landmarks and recognizing neighborhoods, I buried my head in the map.

As my German improved I began keeping my map in my leather bag. I figured that if I got lost, I could ask a stranger for directions. Maybe it wasn’t enough to get me to my destination, but if they pointed me in the right direction, I’d just ask someone else along the way.

I trained myself to look for landmarks. I searched for short cuts, and began charting my own course based on feedback from people who lived in these communities. They often provided tips on what areas we should avoid, especially in the larger cities. One morning I asked a woman if she could give us directions to city center and she told us we’d best stay home because an anti-American rally was taking place near town.

Over time, I relied less on my map. I had good instincts. But it took months before I felt confident enough to lean on them.

I still encounter maps today, but they’re no longer the pocket-sized versions. They show up when I am learning a new skill to further my business or when my children look to me to solve a problem because that’s what fathers do. During these moments, a pocket sized book of answers would come in handy. I’d turn to the index, find “hates school” and chart my route knowing I’ve left the heavy lifting to someone else.

Today there’s a map and an app for that.

But life doesn’t work that way. We learn when we step off the curb and make our way into the unknown, trusting only our instincts.

And somehow we reach our destination while the map stays buried deep in our bag.

“I wanted my kids to know me…I wasn’t always there for them, and I wanted them to know why and to understand what I did.”

That was the answer Steve Jobs gave to Walter Isaacson, author of the first authorized biography about the man who put an iPod and iPhone in the pocket of millions.

“I wanted my kids to know me.”

I read those words over and over until I began to question their meaning. How could his four children not know their father? Wouldn’t a billionaire be able to carve out a week here and there to jet his family off to Sun Valley to ski together? Or rent a yacht off the coast of Bermuda? I can’t picture the Jobs clan slumming it at Wild Waves. Doesn’t money buy time with your loved ones?

Maybe not.

My point isn’t to pass judgment on Steve Jobs or any other father. I don’t recall my father accompanying me on a field trip during my grade school years. But he more than made up for it when I reached high school, and he’s continued to put a premium on spending time with me and my family.

I wonder if the flip side to possessing a brilliant and laser focused mind that creates some of the world’s most sought after products is a reduced desire to spend time with those at home? Is it possible that he could recite every detail of the iPod, down to the internals, but couldn’t name a song on his son’s playlist?

When I began this blog, I didn’t have children. I also had few readers so I wrote whatever came to mind without considering who might come across it. Technically, it wasn’t very polished, but I consider it to be the most interesting work I’ve recorded. It was raw. But it was me, and that’s what I imagine my children reading one day when I’m no longer around.

Had I considered that my kids would one day have access to it, I probably would have stripped every ounce of personality from it. I’m glad I didn’t do that even if it means answering a few questions about part of my life I’m not exactly proud of. I suppose I could delete the posts, but what would that accomplish? I can’t delete them from my past. Those experiences are what helped form the father they know today.

Plus, it’s not as if I can fool my children. It doesn’t take long before they ascertain how invested I am in their interests and their lives. I may as well write how I feel instead of sanitizing it for the few people who may not agree with it. If I write one thing, but act entirely different, my children will know.

Yes, I want my kids to know me.

The real me.

She grabbed her black cello case – that’s as tall as she is – and slung it over her shoulder. I walked a step or two ahead of her as we made our way to the car. When I pick her up from school she has a queue of stories to tell me about her day. But in the mornings she doesn’t say much, and I understand because I’m the same way.

Most nights I work or read well into the early morning hours. My mind seldom begins working before 10 am so getting up at 6 am to see my daughter off to orchestra practice means I’m still a bit groggy.

I toss out a number of breakfast options and let Luca decide what to eat now and what to take for lunch. Today I learned two bread ends make for a good sandwich but only if the crust side is turned inwards. I also learned that chili is not a breakfast option.

The hour we have together goes by quickly. There’s homework to tuck into folders which slips into binders that eventually makes its way into a backpack of a specific color. Four backpacks for four children made of four colors, and I’m still confused a month into the new school year.

With a few minutes to spare, we arrive at the bus stop where Luca reminds me which side of the road to park on.  A light rain begins to fall. This is the time of year when the sun hibernates for months. It’s the dark and dreary stretch of Seattle weather locals tell outsiders about to keep them from moving here.

The bus makes its ways around the bend and stops a few feet from the car. As Luca makes her way out of the car, she leans towards me long enough that I can kiss her forehead but not so long that her fellow bus riders would notice.

When I returned home, I sat in the car in the driveway for a few minutes thinking about how no matter what else I accomplished today, nothing will be as important as the hour I spent with my daughter.